


Like the Pages of a Book

by jonahcomplex



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonahcomplex/pseuds/jonahcomplex
Summary: Snippets from fics I never finished writing, because I'm notorious for never finishing ANYTHING. Multiple fandoms, multiple pairings.
Relationships: Gangrel/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Kudos: 2





	1. It Shows Me the Light - Fire Emblem: Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah, i don't really finish anything because i'm either busy or too depressed... but if there's anything you really wanna see finished then let me know

The small cottage was located squat in the middle of the field, surrounded by a scattering of pink-petaled trees. To the left lay a small creek, which burbled merrily with the song of flowing water. Further along the way was a little stable with a loose board hanging precariously from the the roof.If he listened carefully, he could hear the chirping of birds in the distance. Taking it all in, it was an incredibly idyllic sort of scene; it felt like something out of a child’s picture book. For a moment he stood in the middle of the pathway just breathing in the sweet air, and he almost forgot what he was there for in the first place. Soon enough, a pointed cough broke his reverie.

“Your Grace,” Frederick said from behind him, and Chrom blinked. When he turned around, his second-in-command raised his eyebrows. “Would you like to continue on? We’re almost there.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes, of course,” he replied after a beat, and Chrom heard Frederick’s quiet exhale of exasperation. Along with Cordelia and the three other Shepherds they brought from Ylisse, they resumed their stroll along the path. The sound of boots crunching against gravel, the breathing of horses, and the clinking of Frederick’s monstrous armour helped to ground him, to let him remember why they were there in the first place.

In no time at all, they were three strides away from the sky-blue door that marked the house’s entrance. Just looking at the door set Chrom’s teeth on edge. What would Robin do when she saw them on her doorstep, after so many years of silence? Would she throw them out? Welcome them in? Maybe even blast them away with an admittedly well-deserved Thoron? Or perhaps she would obliterate them with a Nosferatu tome; there’s no telling what kind of awful things Gangrel could have shown her in the years they spent together, Chrom thought sullenly, and immediately felt awful for it. Nearly a decade, and he still wasn’t willing to forgive the former war criminal. But who could blame him, after the “death” of Emmeryn?

It had been nine years since the end of Grima’s War. Seven years since Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick had rediscovered Robin’s sleeping form in the exact same field where they first found her. Five years to the day since Ylisse’s celebrated and beloved tactician left—no, _abandoned—_ her people to live with the Mad King of Plegia, leaving behind the realm she swore to protect for the Chon’sin countryside.

True, the former Grandmaster of Ylisse was not of the halidom. However, she _had_ readily accepted Ylisse as her own and fought the war with Ylissean soldiers. But she was still Plegian in blood and appearance, and local distaste for Plegia was still evident, even after years of healing. Intolerance was not something easily burnt away.

When she took Plegia’s former monarch for a husband in a befuddling turn of events, Ylisse’s gossip mills had come up with such incredibly nasty rumours that even Robin, who was arguably the most level-headed person that Chrom knew, had felt threatened enough to leave the people she had once sworn to protect. The memory of it still stung, the passing years barely dulling the pain, and Chrom could still remember the day she told him of her plans.

_It was a lovely day, with the bright summer sun sweeping his study with warm afternoon light. As Exalt, his duties included overseeing various documents the couriers saw fit to bring him everyday, even if there were still towers stacked precariously on his desk. Instead of attempting to sneak off to enjoy the sun, he was stuck indoors._

_While signing papers on trade route agreements and property disputes, Chrom was fondly thinking of little Lucina and Sumia, who were probably off enjoying a picnic in the royal gardens. He was in the middle of deciding on whether he should join them or not when five curt knocks shook him out of his reverie._

_“Come in,” he called, and turned to face the door._

_Oak doors creaked open, and Chrom’s face drew into a quick grin when he saw that it was Robin. However, that quickly faded when he caught sight of the unusually dark circles ringing the tanned skin around her eyes. The corners of her mouth, usually upturned in an almost-smile, were deep and unforgiving grooves. Robin looked exhausted and frustrated, and Chrom had only ever seen that look twice: once during a nearly disastrous skirmish with the Risen and when she was waiting for Lissa’s prognosis on a near-fatal blow Chrom himself had received during the battle for Valm. Seeing that expression on her face now, during a time of peace? Something was incredibly wrong, and he dreaded the reason behind it._

_He beckoned her closer, pulling a settee from beside his desk to the spot in front of him. Chrom motioned for her to sit, and she dropped down into the plush velvet, covering her hands with her face. When she looked up, black eyes looked at him with sorrow._

_“Your Grace,” she started, and exhaled a short breath. “Oh, Chrom, I can’t do this anymore.”_

_Chrom’s blood turned into ice. “What’s wrong?”_

_“It’s–oh, Gods–I’m so sorry, Chrom, but I have to leave. I can no longer stand to hear the rumours about my family,” she cried. Slim hands turned into white-knuckled fists clutching at the hems of her robes._

_The Exalt growled, gripping his pen so tightly it almost snapped in two. “I thought I already stamped out those damned dissenters and rumourmongers ages ago. Are they bothering you again? Let me handle them.” In his mind, he was already giving orders to Cordelia and Frederick to personally locate the bastards and put them on trial for treason, but he was cut off by the sudden look of anger in his tactician’s face._

_“Your people will never forgive me for marrying Gangrel,” she bit out. “I could spend decades in this halidom’s service, win countless battles, but they will never learn to accept my husband though he has proven himself time and time again to be loyal to me.” Chrom caught the meaning of ‘loyal to me’ instead of ‘loyal to Ylisse’, and understood. “Do what you want but it will not change anything.”_

_“In Ylisse’s defense, he_ is _a war criminal. He is indirectly responsible for the slaughter of innocent people.” The moment those words left Chrom’s lips he instantly regretted them, for the look on Robin’s face was heartbreaking to see._

_“You don’t think I know that? I do, Chrom,” she says desperately. “I think about it every single day. But he’s so different from the person he once was. Gangrel is my husband, the father of my_ child _, for Naga’s sake! Do you think I would be with someone like Gangrel’s past self?”_

_Chrom sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course not. We know you._ I _know you.”_

_“But Ylisse doesn’t. Every day that I walk the streets of Ylisstol, I hear the most awful things about my family. My husband. My son, Chrom. He’s only two, and already I hear that townspeople jeer at him when he and Gangrel go to buy food. I will not raise my child in a place where he is treated as a monstrosity.” Black eyes burn bright. “If they cannot afford my family the same respect they show me then I cannot accept their treatment.”_

_“So what will you do?” Chrom asked, even if he felt like he already knew what she was going to say._

_“I will take my family elsewhere,” she said, and Chrom’s heart dropped like a stone. “I will renounce my title as Grand Tactician. Ylisse has no need of me anymore,” Robin murmured, face trained down to look at her clenched hands. “There’s no war to fight, no Grima to kill. I will focus on my husband and my son, and not be kept up all night fearing for their safety.”_

_Chrom nearly stood up from his chair. “Don’t. Don’t leave,” he pleaded, grabbing her hands and gripping them tightly. “There must be_ something _we can do. I will do everything in my power to ease your troubles. I swear it on Naga’s name!”_

_Robin’s smile was full of sorrow and steel. “Your Grace, you of all people know that the minds of your citizens will never change. There is nothing left to do.” She loosened his grip, and held his much-larger hands in her own. “We have already begun packing. Libra and Cordelia are helping Gangrel finish up at home.” Robin stood, and though she hadn’t left yet, it already felt like a goodbye. “I’m sorry, but my first loyalty is to my husband and my son. I regret that it had to come to this. But I am left with no other choice.”_

_In a fit of sudden rage, Chrom roughly threw her hands off. Azure eyes seared with hurt, and Robin took a step back, startled at the vitriol emanating from his face. “Fine! Leave, then, if you’re so eager to get away instead of fighting back! This isn’t like you, Robin,” he growled, standing up. “It’s not like you to give up. Tell me, was this really your idea?”_

_“What are you talking about?” Robin shouted._

_“This is all Gangrel’s idea, isn’t it?” Chrom bit out, right hand closed around a missing Falchion. “Stealing away Ylisse’s saviour for Plegia’s benefit? Is that what this is, Robin? I didn’t know you were so easily swayed by a royal Plegian cock—“_

_The sharp, stinging pain that attacks his face is no comparison to the gust of wind that throws him backwards. Chrom and the chair flew to slam against the stone wall, the armchair shattering to send splinters into the Exalt. When Chrom looked up, the pain of his injury was nothing compared to look of absolute rage that possessed Robin. Her hands glowed green with Wind magic, though there was no tome in sight, and suddenly terror slunk into his bones._

_He had never seen Robin so angry, not in all their years of friendship: the closest she’d ever come was when Aversa tried to Nosferatu the older Morgan, and it was cold, steely anger. Not like the Robin that stood in front of him now—dripping with wrath, magic flowing from her bones like water against steel, eyes on fire and breaths choppy. The Robin in front of him could have been easily mistaken for Grima. Perhaps he had never been truly burnt out of her at all._

_“How DARE YOU!” Robin shrieked, hand flying to send sharp winds to the side. Beside Chrom, a bookcase was instantly torn into shreds. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, Wind magic dying down. When she opened her eyes, Chrom saw the white-hot wrath burn out into cold fury._

_“I’m never coming back,” she spat at him. “Do not talk to me, my son, or my husband again, Exalt,” saying his title like a curse. “Do not look for me. Attempt to do so and I will make sure there is nothing left of the soldiers you send to me._ **_Nothing_ ** _.”_

_With that, Robin turned, flung the doors open and walked away. Distantly, Chrom could hear the clanging of the royal guards scrambling to figure out what was happening, and he soon lost consciousness._

_When he woke up the next morning, a teary-eyed Lissa told him that Robin and her family had left in the middle of the night, her house barren and friends clueless as to her whereabouts. She had gripped a letter in her hand, and refused to tell him of the contents, only saying that Robin was headed somewhere far, far away._

_He had sent Pegasus Knights to hunt her down soon after, but those who had managed to escape Robin’s wrath had returned with nothing. After weeks of searching, he finally gave up._

Years after that fateful encounter, Chrom’s heart still burned with guilt over what he said. Many a time over the past five years, Chrom had replayed that moment over and over, agonizing over his words and wondering if Robin would have stayed if his words weren’t the savage knives that they were. Sumia had always attempted to console him, but admitted in the end that she would have done the same thing if she were in Robin’s place. There was not a day that passed by that he did not think of it.

Now that he stood at her doorstep, he was beginning to think that this was a horrible idea. He was sure that he would be obliterated moments after she caught sight of him, and already Chrom was anxiously thinking of how Lissa would be as Exalt. He was just about to turn around and suggest a strategic retreat when Cordelia hopped off her pegasus and gestured forward at the door. They were quiet on their way, so he was positive that Robin wouldn’t have heard them yet.

“Your Grace?” The commander of Ylisse’s Pegasus Knight Platoon asked worriedly. “Is she not home?”

“No,” Chrom said immediately. “No, she’s here, I can feel it. I know she’s here.” There was the humming of something in his bones and he was sure that they all felt it too: the aura of the greatest Anima magic user of their time was difficult to hide. It wasn’t quite the same as it was during Grima’s War; no, it was much more potent now, perhaps from frequent use. Chrom swore that he could almost taste the lightning on his tongue.

“Then what’re you waiting for, Blue?” Gaius inquired, his old nickname slipping in. “Knock.”

“Gaius,” Frederick reproved sternly, but Chrom wasn’t paying attention. He took a deep breath, strode to the door, and knocked thrice.

At first, there was nothing. Chrom was ready to turn around until they heard a harried-sounding “Coming!” from beyond the wood, and everyone froze. Hurried footsteps and a clinking noise later, the door wrenched open.

For the first time in five years, black eyes met blue.


	2. can you hear me? - Yuri!!! on ICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> botched snippets from a YOI coffeeshop AU from 2018: yuri works at a coffeeshop, and victor is a famous artist who's found his muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are literally unfinished, i just wanted to collate them somewhere that's not my computer

The homey warmth and sweet smell of Café Hasetsu was intoxicating on a rainy evening like this, Victor thought happily as he got cozy in his window booth. Outside, sheets of icy rain pelted the streets, drenching everyone unfortunate enough to be caught still walking. On the other side of the street, he could see a woman dashing towards the nearest dry surface, clutching an upset-looking cat in her arms. Cars powered through the onslaught of water, windshield wipers working furiously to provide some semblance of sight through the haze.

Inside the thankfully-dry café, Victor sighed into his extra-large Americano. He had discovered the establishment a little over a month prior prior, while on his afternoon walk with Makkachin. They had both needed the walk; his dog had been getting restless while he was finishing the last paintings for his gallery show for the week after, and Victor himself was tired of sitting in front of an easel for hours on end, acrylic paint staining his fingers and his hair greasy from days without a wash. After he had hung up his apron and taken a short shower, he leashed up his poodle and tiredly roamed around for an hour, finally discovering the quaint little place a few blocks away from his condo.

Upon walking in, he had been delighted to discovered that dogs were, in fact, allowed inside, as long as they didn’t disturb any of the other customers. The barista working the counter, a cheerful woman whose nametag read Yuuko, had charmed Victor with her easy smile and her eager recommendations, and he ended up spending the whole afternoon there.

_“Your cute little poodle can stay inside, of course! It wouldn’t be nice to leave her alone outside,”_ Yuuko chirped, ringing up his order: one extra-large monstrosity of a blended mocha drink and a ham sandwich for his baby. _“Please enjoy your visit to Café Hasetsu!”_

For four hours, Makkachin had snoozed beside him while he sipped at his drink (which was not cloyingly sweet like all the other mocha drinks he’d ever tried, thank heavens) and absentmindedly sketched the passers-by outside. At the end of his drink, he’d already made up his mind to come back again, pocket sketchbook full of gesture drawings and studies. Victor had departed with a bright smile and a wave, promising a delighted Yuuko that he’d be back again soon. Even the other barista, a cool-looking woman named Mari, had waved goodbye. He’d gone home that day with more spring in his step and a bubbly Makkachin. Since then, Victor made sure to find free time at least twice a week to visit Café Hasetsu with his poodle, who seemed to equally love the establishment.

The café was a mix of old and new: the cafe was decorated with plush, aged sofas and worn but sturdy tables that bore water stains, but all the machines and crockery were modern and recently bought. The interior’s warm brick walls were there ever since the building was constructed, the café’s manager Mari Katsuki explained to him once over a cup of sencha, but they had made efforts to replace the flooring since they found wooden flooring to be much easier to clean as opposed to the tiles that were originally there. “ _Also, tiles are kind of ugly and don’t belong anywhere besides a kitchen and outdoor areas,”_ Mari had grumbled.

Soon, he became a regular and began to memorize the faces that often greeted him at Hasetsu: there was Yuuko Nishigori, the ever-cheerful and sweet barista with the rowdiest triplets he’d ever come across, her husband Takeshi, who was the boisterous cook and made the best damn pasta Victor’s had (and Victor’s been to _Italy_ , mind you), and Mari, who alternated between shrewdly managing the account books and manning the hulking espresso machine. Apparently, Mari’s parents owned Hasetsu and left the café to her while they managed their small inn across town, and she ran the place smoothly and efficiently in their stead. A part-time employee, a cheerful boy named Phichit, was also there from time to time. Aside from being the other cook, he was the social media manager for Hasetsu, and could be often found in a corner of the cafe with the best lighting as he artfully posed lattés and scones beside books (and on one occasion, Victor’s sketchbook, much to his bemusement). Together, they made for one very vibrant cast.

There was also one other employee at Café Hasetsu: Mari’s younger brother Yuuri, who was in his last year of university and was the star baker of Hasetsu’s scrumptious pastries. Victor had never seen him around, since the younger Katsuki chose to bake most of the day’s sweets in the morning and take the late evening shifts in deference to his classes.

_I might actually be able to meet him now,_ Victor mused as he inked in a quick study of Mari lazily sitting at the counter, unlit cigarette hanging from her fingers, apron immaculate and stain-free. _I’d be willing to endure the rant from Yakov, even, if Yuuri’s as cute as Yuuko says._

“Victor!” Yuuko greeted, as she made her way over to her booth, easily making her way through the occupied tables to sit in front of him. Makkachin licked at her fingers, and Yuuko patted her until she went to rest under the table.

“Yuuko, how are you?” Victor beamed. “Is your shift over?”

“It will be in a few minutes,” she said, and leaned over conspiratorially. “Are you staying for the dinner rush? Yuuri will be here soon!” Her eyes turned mischievous, with a gleam that Victor was sure didn’t come from the overhead lights. “I have a feeling you’re going to like him a lot, Victor. He’s an avid follower of contemporary art, I’m sure he’s heard of you, Mr. Famous-Russian-Artist! Heck, even I’ve heard of you and the most I’ve ever browsed for art is the berlin-artparasites page on Facebook.”

Victor chuckled, well aware that one of his most famous pieces, _Stammi Vicino_ , had made its way onto the contemporary art page and shot him to mild internet fame, especially amongst casual fans of painting. “We’ll definitely have a lot to talk about, then! But he might not have time,” he noted sadly, setting aside his liner pen to rest his chin in one hand to pout at Yuuko, who giggled. “He’ll most likely be busy.”

“He’ll definitely make time for you,” the Japanese woman assures him with a smile. “Yuuri’s shy, but once you get him started he’ll never shut up!” The door chimes tinkled happily, and Yuuko’s grin got even wider. “There he is!”

“Sorry sorry sorry!” a new voice wailed. “Mari-nee-san, I’m so sorry I’m late! I’m here now!”

“It’s okay,” Mari called out from the back. “Just hang your coat and use my spare shoes so you don’t soak up the floor. Mop up after.”

“Okay!”

Victor resisted the urge to stand and crane his neck to see, but saw that he didn’t need to: a raven-haired man had dashed into the store, brown coat soaked from the rain and black trainers making squishy noises against the hardwood floor. Victor didn’t even have time to catch his face, since Yuuri made a beeline for the back of the store.

“That’s our Yuuri,” Yuuko sighed. “Always in a hurry.”

“It’s pretty cute,” Victor replies, making a “hmm” noise. “Is he always late?”

“This is his first time this year. He’s usually punctual, but I don’t blame for being late today: this rain is unbelievable. If I didn’t have a car, I’d be worried.” Yuuko suddenly blinked. “How are you getting home, Victor?”

A pause. “ _Bozhe moy_.” He grabbed his messenger bag and frantically rummaged inside: pencil case, wallet, sunglasses, Makkachin’s leash, apartment keys… and no umbrella. “I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home. Ah, well. Looks like Makkachin and I are going to be staying here a little while longer.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “It’s fine, Yuuko. I know you want to get home to the kids soon.” His smile turned a little more crooked. “Plus, I want to see if I can make conversation with Yuuri.”

“Oh, right!” The barista giggled. “I almost forgot!"

\----

_wherein victor is a painty painty artist person_

_\----_

_There’s something not quite right about this… hm._

He poked his tongue out absentmindedly as he attempted to rework the jaw into something more resembling, well, a jaw. Twenty minutes and quite a few careful strokes of the brush later, he finally felt as satisfied as he was going to get and settled back in his stool, examining his work. A picture of his late father stared imperiously back at him, dark eyes calculating and aquiline nose regal in its bearing. Dmitri Gregoriyevich had always been an imposing man, and he continued to be so even after his passing.

Victor had incorporated dark tones into the piece, definitely making a contrast to the work he’d done of his mother, which was more ethereal in its execution: instead of the somber, grounding tones of browns and maroons, Irina Nikiforova was resplendent in lilacs, pinks, and powder blue. He had made a valiant effort to capture his mother’s elegance: platinum hair in a braided bun, eyes looking slightly beyond the viewer, and rosy lips set in a mysterious half-smile. Even in middle age, Irina had surpassed the most beautiful of tsarinas.

Looking at his mother’s portrait, which sat on an easel beside his studio’s sole potted plant, Victor recalled Yakov’s expression upon being shown the painting for the first time. His agent and uncle had graced him with a rare smile upon seeing the portrait, and said nothing but “ _It will be difficult to top this.”_ Victor had simply laughed and replied, _“You know me. I will surprise you eventually.”_

He sighed and looked down at his paint-stained hands. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if there was still anything in him left that would surprise people. Victor had made his art debut at the tender age of sixteen, having been offered a gallery show by a family friend who had seen his paintings being displayed around their home. The show had been a success, skyrocketing the young teenager to relative fame.

In the following years, Victor had delighted in constantly reinventing his art through different mediums and subjects: one show of his in 2009 had nothing but whimsical oil paintings of his poodle Makkachin (who had delighted in the attention she received from gallery patrons during the exhibition), and his 2011 exhibition entitled _“Sordid”_ had him explicitly explore mixed media collages of all his bedfellows in that year (there were twelve, if he remembered correctly: most of them had been delighted and flattered to be subjects of his work, but one irate man in particular had bought the piece of himself to destroy at home, much to Victor’s amusement).


End file.
